Idle Ideal (Idol)

Underestimated on the nose, the finish will bring contact joy that won't be measured by your primitive human measuring things. Cry havoc, release the gods of the pour. Know from whence your secondary fermentation comes. Know the simple smells of apple, crab apple, and apple sauce. Unless you plan to start dressing better, leave the bottle on the shelf. After an initial flood of consideration, you'll find yourself waiting at the top of the stairs for him to come home. Night after inconsistent night, the darkness consumes you with the light suggestive touch of old perfume bottles and dust, so much dust.
Velvety in texture, almost waxen, flaxen curled and yellow, so yellow. A brightness of character and quickness of wit that can be awfully intimidating unless allowed to mellow properly. Stick a bottle on a shelf some place and forget about it. Just be sure to store it properly or you'll end up with something suitable for salad dressing.
The bubbles go up. The bubbles go down. All around, our cities to ground. So proud. So white. They've put out their lights. No one now knows how to grow the grape. There hasn't been a vineyard capable of producing an effervescence this easy since before you were born, but the wine is still aging beautifully. It gets better with every birthday. It's been going down hill since it was sixteen, when all its friends were learning to drive and it was still trying to claw its way up out of the glittering, un-oaked ether.
Drink it with a blindfold, lest you never make it past the unearthly color to the real meat of the grape; round, full and vulnerable. There's a clear lack of pungency in the swampy health of light inkwell, peacock call, and viewing platform. Notes of power and corruption remind the drinker of a twenty-first birthday party spent bombed out of mind and time on fruity cocktails and shots of tequila basura. Cement mixers and prairie oysters lead forcefully into a prison of light green and blue vines with such shy, pale eyes peeking out at you. His oiled, rippling biceps hold you down and paint you with honey, sunflower petals, fresh bread, sugar sweet sunshine.
Sweet, without being fruity. Fruity, without being floral. Floral, without being pretty. Pretty bad, actually, if you don't know what you're tasting for. Do yourself a favor and don't attempt a glass without at least a couple of degrees of education in something relating to taste, or else a good decade spent traipsing across europe on a motorbike, carrying pilfered grapes in your helmet, riding away from the vintners' shotgun blasts fast as you can. Hoot and holler along the way like some teenager who just, for the first time, drove with the top down to the skinny dip lake where the girls in his class reveal their secrets so lightly. It wears its secrets so lightly, thinking back on it there will be honey flavored tears.
Soft metal, unhammered by time, fate, hammers. Uncreased. Unholily pure. Don't be a goldsmith if you can help it. Drink a glass of bubbly instead. Lay your tired body down and become rich soil and pray that some day the lost grapes may grow again.

Varietals: Summer, Ease, Cocaine, Insouciance, Aw shucks
Food Pairing: Store it bad and use it as salad dressing